Page 39 of The Biker and the Baker
When I walk in, she glances up and glares at me. “Thanks a lot, asshole.”
“Sorry. Alvin said all the staff had left.”
“What does your fart-brain floor manager know about the kitchen staff?” She makes a grunt-like noise in her throat. “Much like you, he hardly bothers to come behind here. He seems to think the building stops in the prep room.”
She’s in her customary getup—double-breasted white jacket, baggy black slacks, and Crocs. Her luscious, dark hair is hidden beneath that poofy chef’s hat they all wear behind here. There’s nothing sexy or appealing about her uniform, but I’m irresistibly attracted to the woman underneath it all.
I set the keys down on the counter, grab some paper towels, and go to help her clean up.
It’s been just about a week since I’ve had my mouth on hers, since I felt her breath on my skin as she came all over my fingers. She’s been avoiding me like the plague, and the week has been far too hectic for me to chase her around.
That said, I’ve been hoping to catch her working late all week, as she often does, but it’s almost as if she knew I was waiting to corner her, ‘cause she’d be gone by the time I get here to close up in the evenings.
Wasn’t counting on it tonight. But I guess it’s my lucky night.
"I've got it," she says,toofocused on the task at hand. "You can go. I’ll reset the alarm before I go. "
Like hell if she thinks I'm going anywhere. Not after waiting so long to catch her alone.
“You’ve been avoiding me," I point out as I help clean up batter splashes.
"No, I've beenbusy. Get over yourself."
"Yeah. You're apparently busier than the goddamn president."
She holds her tongue until she wipes up the last bit of batter, dumps the sticky pile of paper towels, and washes her hands.
While drying her hands in a kitchen towel, she turns to glare at me. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"
Yeah. Inside you."I'm already there."
Mumbling something under her breath, she goes back to the station and begins prepping new batter, doing her best to ignore me.
Amused by her deteriorating willpower to resist me, I wash my hands before striding to where she’s at. Lean back against the long, stainless steel table, and cross my arms.
Getting in her personal space is unnerving her, flustering her, so I continue to do it. Pia’s not the type to blush or get nervous easily, so getting her rattled is one hell of a feat.
"How many times have you thought about fucking me this week, Pia?"
I don't get the reddened cheeks I was hoping for, but I do get a throat bob.
"Zero," she answers. "I've got enough visuals in my spank bank to last me a year, andyouaren’t in any of them."
I tsk. "You shouldn't lie, Sweet P."
"Can you leave me alone, please?"
"Pia, look at me."
She whips her head around to face me, frustrated. "What?"
"You know we’re gonna happen, right?"
She gazes back at me for the longest second, her restrained desire fighting forward, on the brink of giving in. Then, as if waking up from a dream, she blinks once, twice, before she looks away and cracks an egg into the bowl. "Keep dreaming."
Goddammit, the woman is stubborn. I want her to give in, but I’m running out of patience. Just like last week, it seems I’ll have to coax it out of her.
As she reaches for the whisk, I grab her hand and tug her in front of me. She doesn't fight. It's what she wants. Action, not words. Words are her weapons; give her words and she’ll turn them into missiles. But touch...that’s her weakness. I just didn’t want to use it to win. But she leaves me no choice…
